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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24477664">is it better to speak, or to die?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/drqco/pseuds/drqco'>drqco</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Confessions, Fluff, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:55:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,695</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24477664</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/drqco/pseuds/drqco</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“martín?” andrés had called out as he kept floating on his back, not bothering to look at his friend. “hm?” he responded. </p>
<p>“is it better to speak, or to die?”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>80</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>is it better to speak, or to die?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hope u like it, also i made a twitter ! im @palermcs, <a href="https://twitter.com/palermcs">here :)</a> feel free to dm!! :)</p>
<p>i was watching cmbyn again, this quote really stuck out to me this time around</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“is it better to speak, or to die?” </p>
<p>nairobi poses him the question on a sunny afternoon, the two of them lounging in the monastery courtyard. he had brought his book and nairobi just decided to lie down on the sunchair next to him. but the question causes him to put down his book, let it rest against his chest as he turns his head to face his friend. </p>
<p>“you’ve been speaking with berlín a lot, haven’t you?” he snickers. </p>
<p>andrés had asked him the same question a long time ago, back when it was just the two of them that lived here. it was on a day like this, they had decided to go down to the lake, rest for a bit. they had been working the whole day, anyway. </p>
<p>he had been floating on his own, enjoying the sun on his skin contrasted with the coolness of the water. andrés was lying on the grass nearby, with his own hat and book. the <em>heptaméron, </em> he had told him. martín didn’t look into it, it was large and not his type. andrés was more into those things—philosophical texts. </p>
<p>“martín?” andrés had called out as he kept floating on his back, not bothering to look at his friend. “hm?” he responded. </p>
<p>“is it better to speak, or to die?” </p>
<p>and he had thought hard about it, then. logically, speaking was better. everyone eventually reached their end, so why not speak? whether you chose to die or to speak, the ending is the same for all. there are few words that cannot be healed, while dying is permanent. </p>
<p>though, would everyone take that chance? speaking those words? what if you take the wrong path, say the wrong thing, then things can’t be healed once again? would you take the chance? (would he take that chance?) if things cannot be healed, then why would living matter? </p>
<p>“speak, of course,” is what he eventually told andrés. was he lying? maybe—partly. in this life, though, he knew he was actively choosing death. because the man he loved so much was only a few feet away from him, then, and he chose to say silent. he was scared—a coward. he still is. </p>
<p>he heard his friend hum a bit, as if pondering on his thoughts. “why?” he asked him. andrés shrugged, “i read it here. and there’s a woman.” and as always, there was a woman.</p>
<p>“i’ve just been thinking about it,” nairobi responded, crossing her arms behind her head, looking up into the clear, italian sky. “which one is better, then?” martín asks, finally putting his book to the side. he runs a hand through his hair, then lets it fall to his side. “you first,” whispers nairobi. </p>
<p>“speak,” he answers with no hesitation, for he already had the answer and was prepared. but he’s a hypocrite, and nairobi sees through him. though she nods, agreeing with him. “you haven’t done so,” she retorts, turning to face him as well. they stare at each other, understanding in both their eyes. “you haven’t either,” he shrugs, knowing about her and helsinki. </p>
<p>“it’s impossible, palermo. physically impossible. yours is not,” there’s sadness in her voice, she yearns for something that she can never have. but martín understands, knows that feeling of yearning all too well. it’s second nature to him. “no, it’s impossible.” </p>
<p>“how?” </p>
<p>he bites his lip, thinking of what to say next. “i’ve spoken already,” he starts. he takes a breath, and, “then i died.” he already had his chance—already spoke. in the end, he died. and though andrés came back, martín doesn’t think he can be brought back to life once more. </p>
<p>“we say speak, though we both know we’ll die in the end. why is that?” </p>
<p>“both paths lead to death, nairobi, in one way or another. why choose to say silent?” </p>
<p>she goes silent after that, too. </p>
<p>the two of them lay in silence, thinking about their words, soaking them in. then, andrés’ voice cuts through the courtyard. martín looks around, before finding him in on the other side, smiling brightly and waving at him. “come with me, to the chapel,” he called out. of course, martín obeys, getting up and gathering his things, preparing to leave nairobi. </p>
<p>“you should speak, again. you can’t experience death twice, no?” she nods he head towards andrés, before getting back into the position of facing the sun. her eyes follow his. “with him, anything is possible,” he shrugs, squeezing her shoulder as he walks past. martín takes a moment, before calling out, “you should speak anyway. some of the pain will go away.” </p>
<p>she holds his gaze for a moment, before turning away. </p>
<p>--- </p>
<p>sometime later, martín finds himself in the courtyard once more, not with nairobi, but with andrés. they’ve been sharing a bottle of wine, talking about the plan, as they usually do. they sit on their respective chairs, a few feet away from each other. a small lamp is their only source of light, apart from the moon from above. he’s thankful it isn’t cold, yet, because the breeze was nice, cool against his exposed arms. </p>
<p>andrés lies with his night robe, a marble mess of reds and blues. he looks beautiful in it, especially with the light of the lamp and the moon. a god, martín would say. too powerful for men. </p>
<p>“what were you talking to nairobi about earlier?” he asks all of the sudden, after a sip of wine from his glass. martín smiles, at nothing in particular. “she asked if it was better to speak, or to die. did you talk to her about it?” </p>
<p>“hm, no. she must’ve pondered it herself. or read the <em>heptaméron </em>,” andrés pauses for another sip of wine. “what did you say?” he asks, and martín turns to look him in the eye.</p>
<p>“the same thing i said years ago, when you asked me. speak,” he says quietly. andrés turns as well, putting his wine glass down to stare at him like he and nairobi did earlier. “how about you? i never asked you,” he’s afraid of the answer. </p>
<p>“die,” andrés admits quietly, frowning at martín. martín quirks his head, not expecting that. he never took andrés as someone to hold his tongue, because he never did. he always told what he felt, no matter the consequence. it’s how he married all those women. then divorced them, in the end. </p>
<p>“why?” </p>
<p>“i’m a coward, martín. i’ve already chosen death, anyway,” the older man shrugs. though, it doesn’t make sense. he has spoken, he’s always chosen to speak. like he said, it’s how he married all those women. “you married, andrés. that’s equal to speaking,” he retorts, the words leaving a bad taste in his mouth. </p>
<p>“i spoke, then i died and everything died around me. do you understand?” his words hang in the air. and then, his words remind him of that night in the monastery, one of the worst nights in his life. how andrés spoke, then proceeded to kill martín and stab him in the heart as well. they hadn’t actually talked about that night since they reunited for this heist. but it doesn’t make much sense, because how did andrés die as well? he spoke, he lived. andrés came out unscathed. it was all a <em>lie </em>. </p>
<p>“not really,” shrugs martín, partly a lie. he thinks he understands, but he wants andrés to speak it himself. he doesn’t move from his chair, doesn’t look at the man anymore. “do you think i lied to you, back then?” </p>
<p>“of course,” scoffs martín, crossing his arms on his chest. he tenses up, feels his heart being squeezed inside his chest. the feeling of back then crawls up into his mind, like a repressed memory. he considers leaving andrés right here, going back to his room in the chapel. “i never lied to you. it was impossible.” </p>
<p>“how?” the word left his mouth faster and more harsher than he could ever expect. martín shoots up, before leaning towards andrés, repressing the urge to strangle andrés. he still lies on his chair, with his eyes closed and a smug look on his face, unaffected. as always. “i stuck by your side for than 10 years. you told me you loved me, that we were soulmates, then you left!” he’s shouting by now, gripping the chair tightly. he’s aware that he could wake the other members of the gang, but he doesn’t care. </p>
<p>“because i’m sick, martín!” the words hang in the air, at any point ready to come down and crash down on the two of them. martín doesn’t say anything, simply walks forward and crouches to be face to face with andrés, who was now sitting to the side of his own chair. </p>
<p>“with my mother’s illness. they said i had three years, but, look at me now. still haven’t dropped dead. i didn’t expect to be here,” andrés scoffs, lifting his head to look at martín. so that was it? “i didn’t want you to be with me, when i died. i wouldn’t deserve it, neither would you, martín-” </p>
<p>“stop assuming what i want, andrés!” at that point, he launches forward, grabbing andrés by the lapels of his robe, pushing him down into chair. martín straddles him, still gripping the lapels tightly. he feels tears in his eyes, now, and even though he wants to wipe them away, his grip doesn’t loosen. “who knew, hm? sergio?” he asks, motioning his head in the direction of sergio’s room. </p>
<p>he watches as andrés’ face morphs into a frown, before saying, “everyone here knew.” </p>
<p>and that’s what makes him tick, the fact that his best friend didn’t tell him a crucial part of himself before telling strangers. he doesn’t even register what he’s doing before his fist connects with andrés’ face, just once, though. there’s a look of shock on andrés, his nose is bloody. but martín could care less, because he’s openly crying now, slightly drunk, and his head is pounding. </p>
<p>“hijo de <em>puta, </em>” he gets out, whispers against andrés ear. with one swift motion he shoves andrés again, gets off, and angrily walks back to his own room, never looking back at him. </p>
<p>--- </p>
<p>he doesn’t cry that night, no. he doesn’t drink, he doesn’t do anything self-destructive. he doesn’t sleep, either. he lies still for once in his life, unmoving as he stares up at the ceiling of the chapel, under the covers on his makeshift bed. he doesn’t move even when nairobi walks in and lies down next to him, stares at the ceiling with him as well. </p>
<p>“i heard,” she whispers. martín scoffs, shaking his head. “i mean, if it helps, he wouldn’t have told us willingly.”</p>
<p>“of course i know that. he’s too proud.” nairobi scoffs at that, martín feels the bed dip a little as she lays on her side. he feels her gaze against the side of his face, yet he doesn’t make an effort to move. her fingers dance across martín’s arm, soothing him. he doesn’t say it much, but he loves this woman. maybe it’s because she acts like the mother he’s never had, or because their conversations flow so easily, or how their banter is hilarious, but he loves her. </p>
<p>“would you do the same?” she whispers. finally martín moves to face her, thinking about her words. it pains him to say what he’s about to say because fuck, in the end, nairobi and andrés would be right. “you know what i’m going to say.” nairobi laughs at him, placing a hand on his cheek. “but it’s different, with him, you know,” is what he adds at the end, placing a hand on top of hers, on his cheek. </p>
<p>“how so?” </p>
<p>“he’s just,” he doesn’t know what to say, then. doesn’t exactly know how to put it in words. he’d risk it all for andrés, to the point where if they were faced with death, he would rather himself than andrés. “don’t know, really. i just didn’t want him to do that.” </p>
<p>“well, you two are the same, hm?” she smiles at him, under the soft light of the few lightbulbs that hang over their heads. “what you two have is the strongest form of love, don’t you think? you’re willing to let go, just for the sake of the other.” </p>
<p>“or we’re both just cowards,” martín laughs, causing nairobi to slap his cheek lightly, before turning to lay on her back once more, staring at the ceiling. it’s martín’s turn, to rub her arm softly, say something nice. he’s never done this before, not to a woman, at least. his mother never did this to him either, but he doesn’t want to think about her. </p>
<p>“te quiero mucho, hermana,” he tells her, rubbing her arm as well. “you only deserve the best,” continues martín, smiling when she does as well. “of course i do.”</p>
<p>then, the door swings open, the crashing of crates near the door shocking the two of them. nairobi sits up, with martín following suit as he turns his head to see the man at the door. it’s andrés, gripping the door knob tightly. he gives them a tightlipped smile, before saying, “ah, martín. i see you’ve developed an attraction to women-” </p>
<p>“shut up, berlín. i’ll break your skull,” nairobi hisses, getting up, but before doing that, kissing martín’s forehead. he laughs at words, giving her hand a squeeze as she faces andrés. andrés tilts his head to the side, a smug look appearing even though there was still blood on his face. martín braces for impact, waits for an argument to arise, but there is none. “treat him right,” is what nairobi ends up saying, before shoving past him and closing the door quietly. </p>
<p>martín glares at andrés, going back to laying down on his bed, turning so his back is towards him. “you hurt me, andrés,” he tells him, partly muffled by his pillow. he hears footsteps coming closer, before feeling a dip as andrés sits down. “you would’ve followed me, if i told you that i was sick,” he whispers. martín turns and faces him from the bed, looking up at him.</p>
<p>“i would’ve done the same,” he admits to him, opening up. he lets his own hand travel until it rests on top of andrés’, on his arm. “but <em>you </em> did it,” he shrugs, giving him a sad smile. andrés nods, an apologetic look on his face. he’s never like this, this is the quickest he’s looked apologetic. “i apologize,” and there it is. a part of martín is laughing, because this is the quickest andrés had ever apologized. but a part of him is hesitant to forgive. </p>
<p>“forgive me?” andrés asks of him, turning to fully face him and hold his hands in his own. martín sits up, places a hand on andrés’ cheek, before telling him, “i will, soon. give me time?” </p>
<p>“of course, querido,” andrés nods. martín’s insides swirl inside him at the sound of the endearment, it makes him feel so joyful inside. “i suppose you don’t want me here. i’ll see you tomorrow, have a nice night.”</p>
<p>“i told you to stop assuming what i wanted, right? or do you want another punch in the nose?” he grabs at andrés’ hand as he tries to stand up, stopping him. he motions to the space next to him with his head, as if to say, ‘stay?’ </p>
<p>andrés understands, and soon, the two of them are under his thin blanket. andrés’ arms are wrapped around him, a feeling he never knew he’d able to experience. they’re warm, comforting. he’d forgive him right then and there, but he needs andrés to learn. to understand the pain he felt. andrés holds him tight, like he’s never did before. if he could, he’d bottle this feeling up, place it on his nightstand. a thought pops up, in his head.</p>
<p>“so andrés,” he asks, idly playing with their intertwined hands, against his chest. andrés hums against his hair, he supposes he’s falling asleep. “is it better to speak, or to die?” </p>
<p>but andrés is asleep before he gets an answer.</p>
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